


Impulsivity

by Hogwhorets



Category: mark fischbach - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: ADHD, Abuse, Blackouts, Bruises, Crying, Drinking, F/M, Female Reader, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fighting, Imprisonment, Lemon, Love, Markiplier - Freeform, Obsession, Panic Attacks, Partying, Scars, Smut, Therapy, Trigger Warning - Abusive Relationship, Violence, YouTube, breakdowns, gashes, i know another heckin fic, im so sorry, its an addiction ok, relationship, reluctance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hogwhorets/pseuds/Hogwhorets
Summary: Mark's been acting strange for the last year and a half. Blackouts, violent episodes, memory loss. You've endured it all this time, the only problem being that he has absolutely no idea.





	1. Oh, no.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry. I had the idea and I just had to write it out ... idk, kill me I guess. I have an update schedule now, so everything's gonna be just fine, don't you worry. :-)
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING - abuse/abusive relationships, bruises, evidence of strong, graphic violence

You were covering the bruises. They were bright, blistering patches of blues, purples, and blacks that had taken root in your skin, splintering across your hips and neck, spreading down your spine, your ribs. You had a few on your face, smaller ones. You were just thankful your eyes weren't swollen anymore. Now, the gashes you could do nothing about. Thankfully, those were in places you could easily cover with clothing.

There was a knock at the door. You felt your pulse quicken, your heart taking on that abnormal rhythm that it only adapted when he was around. It was an effort just to keep your short breaths in check - you _really_ couldn't afford to have a panic attack right now, no matter how much his presence affected you. Besides, you were almost done covering up the bruises, and then it would be okay. It would be okay.

"Baby?" Mark's voice filtered through the door, drowsy with sleep. He sounded a little worried. "Is everything okay?"

"It's all fine," You murmured, relieved that your voice wasn't as shaky as you'd thought it would be. Your throat was raw from crying, and had you not downed a few full glasses of water already, you were sure your voice would've betrayed you. "Just...um..-getting ready!"

"Oh. Okay." He sounded convinced, but you didn't hear receding footsteps. He was still outside the door. Then, quietly..."Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." You finished up the last bit of the makeup, staring bitterly at the tube in your hand. You'd dropped a solid thirty dollars on this foundation, placing all of your hopeful trust in the brand. It was professional quality, its intended use for covering tattoos. So, you'd figured, it must be thick enough to cover bruises. When it came to swelling, you had to get creative, but it worked, for the most part.

You plastered on a bright smile and blinked a few times, clearing the last bit of redness from your eyes. With one swift motion, you pulled the door open, greeting him with a warm expression on your face. You could feel your cheek twitch a little, but you'd be damned if you let your expression falter.

Mark's relief was evident in the way his shoulders settled, his eyebrows relaxing back to their natural state. "Well don't you look pretty."

You smiled again, sure that you would let out a choked sob if you didn't. "Thanks."

"Want me to make you breakfast?" He grabbed your hand, gently guiding you down the stairs and into the kitchen, all the while smiling softly and watching you with those soft brown eyes of his. Soft. They were always soft in the morning.

"S-Sure." You stuttered, trying your best to keep your feet under you. Every step sent tendrils of white hot pain rippling up your spine, begging you to lay down, to let yourself heal. But you couldn't. You had to-literally-paint on a brave face and force yourself to act normal. For your own health. What a conundrum that was.

"Are you okay?" He glanced at you as he pulled the pots out from under the counter, one eyebrow slightly raised with concern. "You seem a little off."

"I'm fine." You forced a reassuring grin, glad he couldn't see the severity of the shaking in your fingers. You mentally cursed yourself for feeling so scared in a moment like this. He was being his sweet, gentle self, and you were terrified.

"Are you sure?" He set the pots down and took a step in your direction, tilting his head in confusion. "You look a little pale. Are you sick?"

"No, sweetheart, I'm-" Suddenly, his hand was raised and you felt yourself recoiling, drawing back into yourself and raising your own hands in front of your face, trying your best to block the impending hit.

The look on his face was heartbreaking. "What are you...-" He cut himself off, horror dawning on his face. "Are you...did you-t-think I was going to...oh my god," He immediately retracted his hand, cradling it against his chest, as if he'd hurt himself, "Why?"

"I-I'm sorry," You murmured, regaining your composure, "Just a reflex, I guess. You know how timid I am." The words were meant to be a reassurance, but your voice shook a little.

He took the bait anyway, letting a soft nod roll through his neck. "Oh. Yeah." Mark's eyes drifted from the floor to your face, his hand once again reaching towards it. This time, however, the motion was much gentler, and with a steely grit you let him place his fingers against your forehead. "You don't have a fever..." He murmured, obviously recovering from the shock of the moment before, "But you're sweating. Oh, baby."

The way he cooed the words at you made you feel sick. _Oh, baby. Baby, baby. Oh, baby._ With a violent ferocity the words played in your head, weakening your resolve by the second. Mark was faster, though, and with one swift movement, he pulled you into his chest. You'd have enjoyed the embrace if your heart hadn't been racing. A small, bitter part of you reminded you how much you'd enjoyed the feeling of your cheek against his shoulder months ago. Years ago. It felt like years.

"Maybe you should go back to bed," He whispered into your hair.

Almost immediately, you choked out a garbled, " _No,"_ startling him out of the embrace. Mark placed a hand on either of your shoulders, looking down at you with confusion plastered on his gentle features. How could you explain your horror to him? How could you explain that you were terrified of the person he might be when you woke up?

Maybe it would be better when you woke up. Maybe he'd be the same gentle boy that you'd loved for years. Maybe he'd be the sweet, smiling man that brought you flowers every Sunday morning and begged you to go on walks with him at dusk, because it was fall and he loved the crisp LA weather. Maybe he'd be the goofball that wrestled the dog and borrowed your styling cream to turn his hair into a flaming red Mohawk, all for the sake of a thirty second video. He could be any of these things, and it would be better. It would be okay.

But he wouldn't be. That small, bitter voice wouldn't let you believe it. Things would not be better when you woke up.

"Why not?" He asked softly, chocolate eyes filling with worry. "You'll feel better."

Your lie was quick, and you hated it. "I slept really well last night. I don't think I could fall back asleep if I tried." _Forced laugh._ "I'm sure I'll feel better after I eat."

He seemed to believe you well enough, and returned to the discarded pots on the counter. "Anything particular in mind? I could make your favorite."

"Nah, don't go to the trouble." You pulled yourself into one of the bar stools, tucking your shaking hands into your lap. "Honestly, I'd be okay with cereal."

"Are you sure?" You wished he'd stop asking you that.

"I'm sure," You breathed, a smile pulling at your lips. So far, it seemed like today would be a good day. Usually, he'd have acted out by now, but seeing as how he hadn't, it should mean that he wouldn't do it. That's usually how it went. Given, you'd been wrong before, but that was unusual. As long as he didn't drink - which, seeing as he couldn't, wasn't a problem - or get too frustrated with something.

Sure enough, he poured you a bowl of cereal and slid it in front of you, satisfied with leaning against the counter opposite of you. A gentle smile pulled at his lips as he watched you, shoveling food into his mouth. His chewing was so loud, but you were used to it by now. Knowing someone for so long really makes you immune to what would be annoying quirks of theirs.

"So," You asked, finally beginning to feel relief in your bones. Knowing that today would probably be a good day was enough to help you relax. "What are your plans for today?"

"Hmm...," he murmured, holding up a finger as he finished chewing. "I might finally do Vanish with the Oculus. It's been a while, and the fans really want me to."

The gruff way he said _Vanish_ made you chuckle - God, how he _hated_ that game. It was almost shocking he'd decided to - wait a second. You felt a shiver go up your spine. _Vanish_ meant rage, and rage meant....Oh, _no._

"Are you sure you should do that?" You asked timidly, "You know how frustrated you get with that game, and I really don't think you should put yourself through-"

"I'll be fine, sweetheart." He flashed that easy, boyish smile at you, the same one that used to make your heart melt. "I'm satisfied with knowing that I beat the game, and I don't really care if I beat it with the Oculus, so it's no big deal."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Yeah, but-"

"Baby, I promise, I can always quit if it gets too frustrating." He finished off his cereal in record speed and put the bowl in the sink, looking expectantly at your own. With a raise of his brow, he managed to ask without saying any words, and upon seeing your nod, did the same with your bowl. "I'll go play for a little bit, and then when I'm done, we can go do something, alright?"

Your pulse was racing again. "A-alright."

He came around the bar and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, making you bite your lip in an attempt to not cry out. "Great," He said, placing a soft kiss on your temple. And with that, he was gone, disappearing into his recording room.

The second he shut the door, you crumbled into a panicked heap of choked sobs and worried, garbled words.


	2. Cookies

You knew the second that you heard the door protest on its hinges that he'd gone to that place. Usually, if he was like this, you could stay under the radar and he may not bother you. Sometimes, he'd ignore you completely, settling instead for breaking something in his office or attacking the punching bag you'd had installed in one of the spare bedrooms. If you didn't catch his attention, he wouldn't direct his anger at you, and you'd be okay. But on the days you _did_ catch his attention...the bruises explained it enough.

You could hear his heavy footsteps down the hallway, and then there he was, seething. His jaw was clenched so tightly that you cringed, sure he was wearing at his teeth. Mark stood at the end of the hallway for a moment, his fists clenching and un-clenching, shoulders rippling with anger he had yet to relieve. You were terrified that he'd notice you, huddled in the corner of the kitchen by the stove, trying your best to make some cookies.

Your fingers were shaking so badly that every shape you molded looked disfigured, somehow managing to be anything _but_ a circle. You choked back a sob, hoping he didn't notice, and pressed more dough onto the tray, deciding that you didn't care how they looked. He'd be normal by the time they baked...right? Normal, gentle Mark wouldn't care about disfigured cookies.

As he rounded the corner, the shaking in your fingers grew worse, and you felt as though each loud footstep was another stake in your spine. He was coming this way, _oh god,_ he was _here._ You heard his footsteps stop in the doorway, and almost immediately, the pan slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly on the tile floor.

Ever so slowly, you turned around, already bracing for impact. Sure enough, the second your eyes collided with his, you felt contact on your cheek. It was a short, stinging slap; the skin on your cheek almost immediately hissed in pain, and you felt tears welling up into your eyes.

"Pick that up," he growled, lowering his hand back to his side. His finger directed your attention down to the pan and discarded cookie dough, and you felt his other hand grasp your shoulder tightly, pushing you down. "You're always making huge fucking messes."

"Mark-" You protested, but his fingers quickly found your throat, holding you upright where he could see you. His chocolate eyes looked so foreign from this angle, so _hard._

"Shut up," He hissed, baring his straight, white teeth at you. "Pick it up."

He released you with such force that you toppled over, pooling at his feet. Terrified not to, you scrambled for the dough, throwing it on the pan and quickly pulling yourself together. He was waiting when you stood up, and took the pan, throwing it into the sink. The two metals collided with a sickening 'clap, clap,' making you cringe internally. It was moments like this that had made you terrified of loud noises.

"Why are you always making a fucking mess?"

"I-" You felt his fingers tighten around your throat again, this time gripping more harshly at your skin. "Mark," You begged, feeling tears prick your eyes.

"I do everything for you, and you repay me by _trashing_ my house?" He leaned forward, over you, somehow seeming taller than he actually was. Maybe it was because you were shrinking away from him.

The house actually belonged to the both of you, but you didn't dare argue with him. "I'm sorry," You choked out, fingers grasping at his hand around your neck. You tried to pry his fingers free, but he slapped your hand away, an animalistic sound emitting from deep within his throat.

"Sorry doesn't fucking cut it, _sweetheart,"_ He spat the name at you, as if it were an insult.

"I made a mistake, I'm sorry," You begged, meeting his harsh gaze. "Please, Mark, please let go."

He did, but not gently. It was more like he was discarding your weight on the floor, once again leaving you in a pool at his feet. "Dumb bitch," He cursed, kicking the side of your rib cage.

You bit your lip to keep from crying out, curling into yourself instead. Maybe, if you laid here and refused to acknowledge the pain he was bringing you, he'd lose interest and go away. He seemed to watch you for a second, kind lips twisted into a menacing snarl, chocolate eyes laced with anger. It was almost like he was weighing his options. After a brief moment of silence, he kicked you again, this time his toes connecting with your hip bone. You bit your lip so hard that you tasted blood, tears now falling freely from your eyes.

After a few more kicks, he stepped back and headed into the living room, slewing a string of incoherent curses under his breath. You lay there, breathing heavily and watching his retreat, your ribs screaming at you to never move again. You didn't want to. You wanted to curl further into yourself, shielding yourself with your arms and your tears, and pray that he'd be himself when he came back.

It felt like hours before you moved. It was slow at first, a steady stretch of aching limbs and a chorus of painful groans, all somehow resulting in you managing to get to your feet. Just stretching your spine made you cry out softly, hating the way the iron tasted on your tongue. Your lip was still bleeding, from what you could tell, and you only hoped it would stop soon. Bruises, you could cover, but blood? Not so much.

Mark was sound asleep on the couch, clutching one of the larger pillows against his chest. You approached him cautiously, not sure if he was deep in slumber or just snoozing. Seeing the way his lips parted in a light snore, you almost smiled, mainly just relieved that he wasn't a threat any longer. Up until now, without fail, he was always himself when he woke up. You could tell by the soft expression on his face that it would be the case tonight, as well.

With tentative fingers, you reached out, fingertips brushing softly against his temple. He stirred and it made you jump, unaccustomed to the sudden movement. His broad arms encircled the pillow tighter, his lips letting slip a few soft words whispered into the fabric. You would've smiled, had you not been crying from the pain he'd caused you moments ago.

When he passed out, he usually didn't wake up for a few hours, which gave you just enough time to shower and assess the damage. So, following your usual routine, you made your way to your shared bedroom with nothing but a dull ache and soft sniffles to keep you company. The bed looked _so_ inviting, but you couldn't risk him waking up and finding you there, asleep, just in case the makeup rubbed off on the pillow.

The only assurance you had at night was the daily dosage of sleeping pills you'd been secretly slipping into his dinner. That way, he didn't wake up in the middle of the night, always fell asleep before you, and always woke up after. You'd just wait until he was asleep to take the makeup off, and quickly apply it in the morning. During the weeks that you didn't have bruises on your face, you still gave him a smaller dosage - that at least ensured that he was too tired to want sex. You wouldn't be able to cover up the bruises when you were naked, and you sure as hell wouldn't be able to explain them.

The shower was equally as inviting as the bed, thankfully, and with an achey reluctance you removed your clothing, letting it slip to the floor. Your reflection in the broad, well-lit mirror was like another slap to the face; you were already bruising on the right expanse between your rib cage and hipbone, and you knew that it meant this one would be bad. Your cheek was still red from where he'd slapped you, and your hair was a matted mess from laying on the floor. Your eyes were red and puffy, your cheeks streaked with tears, your arms and hands - especially your fingers - were shaking so bad that one might have mistaken it for a symptom of hypothermia.

"Shit," You sobbed, feeling your composure collapse again. This was exhausting: having to keep all of these secrets, follow this painful routine. You just wanted to lay in bed and never get out of it. You just wanted him to be normal. Was that so much to ask?

 _Yes,_ that bitter voice reminded you. _He's sick. How dare you criticize him for something he can't handle. He needs_ help.

You weren't sure how to do that, though. How do you walk into a psychologist's office and say, "Hey, my husband of six years has been acting really odd for a year and a half! I haven't reported it until now, and I'm not sure why, but fix him! Oh, and he abuses me!"

 _You don't, idiot._ The bitter voice was dripping with a venom you'd only heard in Mark's voice moments before. _But he needs help._

You sighed and turned away from the mirror, unable to stare at the purple splotches any longer. With a heaviness on your shoulders, you turned on the shower, patiently waiting for it to heat up. It didn't take long, and before you knew it, you were sliding into the hollow confines of the tile room you'd declared your solace. The steaming water rolled over your shoulders in a redeeming way, easing your pain and taking it with it to the drain, leaving you in a state much better than the one you'd been in before. You allowed the tears to flow, mixing with the water and runny makeup on your face, before deciding to clean yourself. Your hair, you didn't worry about. You'd washed it the day before. But you _did_ decide to wash your face, and with bitter acceptance, you rinsed the skin tone-tinted soap from your face. 

As you were washing your body, you heard a knock at the door and froze immediately.

"Babe?"

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ "Yeah?"

"Can I come in?"

You felt panic begin to grip at your bones. With a speedy ferocity, you covered yourself in soap, shrinking back into the corner of the shower. From here, he wouldn't be able to make out your features very well through the foggy glass pane. You were just thankful that it was the kind of glass meant to disfigure body proportions. "Go ahead!"

He opened the door, and through the steam you could see that he'd changed. Into what, you weren't sure, but he was wearing pants now. "When did I fall asleep?" He called over the noise of the shower.

You turned away from the door, just glad that the bruises on your spine were faint enough to go without noticing in this environment. "A little while ago. Right after you finished recording."

"Oh," he said, sounding confused. You watched as he stopped in front of the sink, leaning over to...splash water in his face? That's what you thought, at least. "Why was there a cookie sheet in the sink? You left the oven on."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Oh, my bad," You called nervously, "I kept messing up the dough, so I just decided to take a break and shower." You hated how good you were getting at making up excuses.

"I can finish them, if you want." You could hear the smile in his voice. Your chest hurt.

"That would be lovely." You tried your best to keep your voice even.

Mark turned to face the shower, and you were thankful that he hadn't asked to join you. "I'll go do that then, sweetheart." He started towards the bedroom. "Prepare to smell my delicious creations when you get out!"

You couldn't help the panicked giggle that escaped your lips. "I'll be waiting!"

And with that, he was gone, leaving you to your own devices. You let out the breath you'd been holding, cutting off the shower and wrapping yourself in a towel. With one look in the mirror, you let yourself smile; this was going to be a long, exhausting night.


	3. Ready, Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD I HAVE WOKEN FROM THE DEAD. You might as well enscribe my tombstone with the words, "I'm sorry," cause let's face it folks: I suck. BUT, don't fret, because the HELL that has been my college preparations has finally relaxed for the moment, and I am woefully inspired to write this bitter story. So, you may fan your flames of hope for new chapters, and I will do my best to keep them burning. Let's hop right back into this monstrous abyss we call this ReaderxMarkiplier!

It was with a bitter sigh that you began re-applying your face for the day, feeling as if you were one of those poor, unfortunate beauty vloggers being dragged through 100-layer hell. You _were_ being dragged through a hell of sorts, but it had nothing to do with crusty lips and spider-leg eyelashes. The most striking similarity between you and all of those beauty vloggers was that you were all doing this to yourselves.

Shaking your head free of the thought, you quickly put on one of Mark's old t-shirts and some pajama pants, creeping back downstairs to spy on your husband. _Wow, that sounded odd._ You let a sigh slip from your lips, peering around the wall and into the kitchen, where Mark was placing slightly misshapen heaps of dough onto a fresh cookie sheet. He cursed under his breath, which instantly brought you from your hiding spot, wrapping your arms around his torso.

It was an odd feeling, to be both drawn to and repelled by someone. In his case, every fiber of your being wanted to touch him, to grab him by the face and force him to see you, really _see_ you, but there was that voice. The same one that chastised you for wishing he'd go back to the sweet man you knew, the same one that warned your skin against the feeling of his fingers, the same voice that sent you head-first into the void every time he acted slightly out of character.

Much to your relief, he sighed happily, sinking back against you. "I tried to fix the circles," He murmured sheepishly, chuckling back at you, "But you kind of fucked them, sweetheart." With that, he grabbed for one of the horrific dough figures, holding it out to you with a smirk.

"My bad," You said softly, as if you were guilty of nothing but a lack of artistic talent. There was no way you were going to tell him that they looked like that because you'd been terrified, hands shaking at the thought of him finding them imperfect. Here, now, as your sweet Mark smiled down at  them, you were grateful he had been the one to discover them.

"It's okay, sweetheart." He kissed your forehead and turned back around, not bearing witness to the way you flinched at the nickname. If only he knew how he'd hissed it at you just two hours ago, accompanied only by a splinter of pain as his toes hit your ribs.

"Thank you, for cleaning that up," You murmured, leaning back against the counter. The room felt oddly cold, but with how recently and abruptly he'd gone... _there,_ you didn't want him to hold you. Later, perhaps. Never this soon.

You felt like one of those little ballerinas in a music box, doing her damnedest to stay standing long after the spring withers and her music warps. An Mark was the sweet, devoted child that loved her to pieces and put her back together again, blissfully unaware that he would be her downfall. Like a worn teddy bear cast aside, or a small pet loved too harshly. 

"Don't thank me," He scoffed, raising a brow over at her. "It's the least I could do. After all, I'm the cause of this mess."

She froze. "What did you just say?"

He also froze, looking back at her as if he'd said something wrong. "Well, babe, unless you were planning on eating two rolls of cookie dough by yourself, I figured you were probably baking these for the two of us." His sheepish smile returned, almost guilty, "So I figure, I'm at least partially to blame."

His words hurt you, in a soft, gentle sort of way. Oh, how you missed this Mark. Given, he was around more than the alternative, and you'd lived a blissful four years with him alone, but now, he just scared you. Nice Mark meant the possibility for Bad Mark. Nice Mark reminded you of how dark things _could_ be.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Now his tone sounded less soft and more adamant, begging you to open up and spill the words waiting patiently on your tongue. "I feel like there's something you're not telling me."

"Maybe I'm coming down with something," You offered, shrugging.

Once again, Mark felt your forehead, but you managed not to flinch this time. "Still not warm, and you aren't sweating anymore. Hmm...," He frowned, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "Maybe you're just too loved up."

His words caught you off guard, bringing up a small laugh of disbelief. "What?"

He grinned boyishly. "I just love you _too_ much. Your little heart is struggling to keep up with how awesome I am."

Had it not been for the irony of his statement, you may have laughed with him. "I think you're right," You offered softly, allowing a smile to ease the tension on your face. "Maybe you need to lay off."

"Not a chance, babe." He winked, tucking the complete cookie tray into the oven. "Now, while we wait for these to bake, how about we go for a walk?"

"A walk?" _I miss the boy that asked to go on walks at dusk._ "It's the peak of the day, honey. It's...frankly, hot as _hell_ outside." You chuckled, ruffling the bits of red that cascaded down his forehead.

"So? I'll deal, if it means I can show off my beautiful wife." Mark grinned, stepping closer to you and placing a soft kiss on your nose. "Besides, it's been a while since I've gotten to hold your hand in public."

You really didn't feel up for it, but it was near impossible to deny the boyish excitement festering in his soft, chocolate eyes. _His eyes. Soft, not hard. Not black._ "Okay, okay." You let out a little laugh, taking his extended hand. "You're such a dork, I swear."

"Well, that's very unfortunate for you, because you said, 'I do.'" He chuckled, pulling you into his side and sweeping you over his shoulder. The exact second your ribs hit his collarbone, you yelped, shoving your way out of his hands. He frowned, concerned, and reached for you again. "What? What did I do?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry," You wheezed, pressing yourself against his side, "Just sore. I went to the gym yesterday, and I banged myself on the corner of the counter this morning. Not a good mix." The words were lighthearted, but your expression remained unchanged. You could tell he was skeptical, but he didn't say anything.

"How about we get into some normal clothes and then we can walk to that ice cream shop on the corner, yeah?" He smiled down at you, trying his best to lighten the atmosphere. You loved him for that.

"Sounds like a plan, although, should we really get ice cream if we're going to have cookies ready?"

"I say we just abandon the cookies and settle for trying again tomorrow." He grinned, raising a brow at you.

"I'm okay with that," You murmured, carefully shedding your pants around the side of the bed, where he wouldn't be able to see the marks on your thighs. You carefully slipped on some proper pants and tried to find some way to make your wet hair look more presentable. When you'd finally settled for a ponytail, you noticed Mark staring at you over your shoulder. "What?"

"You aren't going to change your shirt?"

You were still wearing an old, worn shirt of his that hardly passed as presentable on him, much less you. Sighing, you rolled up the sleeves and tucked in the front, holding out your hands as if showing off the look. "Nope. Better?"

"I won't object," He said with a smile, winking at you. "I like to see you wearing my clothes in any setting."

"Even after all of these years?" You teased, looking at him through the mirror.

Mark came up behind you, placing a hand on each of your hips. "Even after all these years."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, leaning back into him. "Ready?"

He slid his hand into yours, pulling you in for a soft, sweet kiss. "Ready, steady."


	4. Times Like These

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of fluff to lighten the mood :-) I know this is a shorter chapter, but as this arch progresses, they will get much longer.

The walk was nice. There was something about it that felt so familiar, so much like _home._ Mark held onto your hand as he had when he'd walked the two of you into your shared home for the first time, and he smiled at you as he had on the day of your wedding. His eyes were such a hopeful, lovely shade of brown that you weren't positive he was truly capable of committing such heinous acts.

As you made your way to the corner ice cream shop, hand-in-hand and sharing childish smiles, you felt normal. He was being excessively sweet and attentive, and even went so far as to ask if your sore spot from "bumping your ribs on the counter" felt any better. You wanted to tell him right then and there, but the words wouldn't come out. One look at his happy, boyish expression, and you were head-over-heels and staring into the abyss, all within the same moment.

He ordered for you, having memorized your favorite flavors after the number of years you'd known each other, and smiled lovingly at you from the counter. You were seated just off to the side on the outdoor patio, enjoying the small portion of shade that the canopy provided. It was a warmer day, and something about the thought of the sun making your makeup just a little more translucent made you nervous.

" _..._ And _here_ we are," Mark said, startling you from your thoughts. He gently pushed the cup into your hand and sat down in the seat next to you, already diving into his own. Within seconds, before you'd even managed to shovel a spoonful between your lips, he smeared ice cream just above his lip. Laughing softly, you took a napkin from the stack he'd brought and wiped at it for him, shaking your head in a mocking sort of way.

Mark just laughed, nodding his thanks in the place of proper gratitude, seeing as how he'd already fed himself another spoonful. "I love you," He gushed, his words garbled by the icky mess behind his lips.

You laughed again, the sound much cleaner, seeing as how you were actually making an effort to eat like any normal, decent person. "You're such a dweeb." You didn't notice at first, but he quickly painted a 'puppy-dog-eyes' expression on his face, jutting out his bottom lip in silent protest of your lack of a reciprocated, 'I love you too.'

"Last time I checked, _dweebs_ are totally your type." Mark grinned mischievously, knowing full well what he was getting himself into.

"Are not. I'll have you know, I prefer my men to be intelligent, sophisticated, _classy-_ "

Mark choked, practically strangling himself with his own chuckles. "Then why..." He paused to laugh again, "You mean to tell me that you're into _that_ type, and you settled for someone like _me_? Wow, miracles really do happen." He winked at you, making your cheeks flame up in both embarrassment and the harsh reality that he had pinned you.

"You can be classy," You protested, wondering why you were fighting so hard in his defense, "I mean, you clean up nice."

"Babe," he said, raising his brows at you, "We both know that you're a total dweeb-lover. Admit it."

You huffed, crossing your arms. "Fine, fine. You've got me. Happy?"

He grinned like a little kid. "Ecstatic." It was only then that you noticed he'd already finished his ice cream, cause he tried to stealthily scoop up some of yours. "Tell me," He murmured as you swatted his hand away, laughing, "Was it the faux hawk,  or the screaming? Or maybe the _classy_ outfits I chose to do yoga?"

You frowned, confused. "What?"

"You know," He said, chuckling, "That really reeled you in. What was it?"

"Hmmm..." You thought for a second, smiling at the way he leaned on the edge of his seat. "I think it was your incessant need to take your shirt off."

"Hey, I had a lot to show off."

"Yeah, what happened?"

Mark put a hand to his chest, jaw agape as if you'd physically wounded him. "I work out every morning, ma'am."

"The walk from the bed to the kitchen doesn't count, sweetheart."

Mark grinned, leaning forward on the table. "So that's how it's gonna be, huh?"

You set your empty cup down, leaning on your elbows. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, really?" Though he was trying to act serious, the corners of his mouth turned up in the ghost of a sneaky smile. "So you think I've gotten soft, huh? Not putting in enough effort to keep up with your standards?"

"You don't have to keep up with them if I'm lowering them," You said, slowly, to really let the burn sink in.

Mark chewed on that for a second. "Alright, that's it." In one swift motion, he scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder, much to your protest.

"Mark!" You giggled, fists pushing against his back, but he wouldn't budge. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance, babe." He didn't seem bothered by the fact that people were staring, nor did he seem at all challenged by your added weight. He carried you off of the patio and out onto the street, resting one hand on the back of your thigh as if he were carrying a pack of some sort.

In truth, your ribs were protesting, and every ounce of bruised skin fought valiantly to get away from him, but you couldn't interrupt this moment. No matter the pain, you'd be damned if you let something as juvenile as a bit of bruising keep you from feeling this happy.

Surprisingly enough, he carried you all the way back to the house, hardly breaking a sweat. In one swoop, he returned you to your feet and swatted at your butt, ushering you back into the house. "Not so out of shape, huh?"

"No, hardly," You murmured, smiling over your shoulder at him. "My big macho man."

Mark flexed, his arms testing the fabric of his sleeves slightly. You felt a small twinge in your abdomen, and you had to admit, he was _hot._ Damn, you'd done a good job with this one. And you got to keep him? Truly a wonder. _Except, you know, he beats you,_ that bitter voice whispered, crushing the small bit of pride you'd managed to gather.

"Babe?" Mark was calling you, one hand resting gently on your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" He asked softly, tilting his head. "Your face fell there for a second. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing, nothing," You responded, flashing him a reassuring smile.

"No, I know you." He lifted his hand to your cheek, silently begging you to look at him. "What's wrong?"

"I just...," You sighed, not really sure what to say. "I just love you, a lot. I missed having days like these."

He smiled ever so softly, placing a tender kiss on the tip of your nose. "Then I'll make it a priority to have more of them." With that, he grabbed your hand and led you to the couch, taking a seat and pulling you into his side. You went without protest, laying your head gently on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your side to pull you closer, all the while using his free hand to flip through the channels. "Let's go on vacation somewhere. Anywhere."

You looked up at him, confused. "That was sudden. Why?"

"Why not?" Mark grinned, settling for some prank show he found absolutely hilarious. "I want to take you somewhere special and spend some nice, secluded time with you. Away from all of... _that,"_ He said, motioning to the hallway that led to his recording room. "We haven't really done any traveling since we first got married, and I know there's still tons of places you'd like to see. What do you say?"

You were quiet for a second. If you were going to do this, it would have to be somewhere quiet, and you'd have to be sure that you could isolate him from outside people. The thought was terrifying, but maybe a change in scenery would help? It was a long shot, sure, but some small part of you thought he might be less inclined to episodes if he was in a new, exciting environment.

"Okay," You murmured, reluctantly, "Let's do it."

He smiled and kissed your temple, resting his head against yours. "I love you."

"I love you, too."


End file.
